


John's Picture

by Ziggy_Played_Guitar



Series: Picture [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (John isn't interested in any of it), Attempt at Humor, Bad Advice, Blow Jobs, Breast Fucking, Cheating, Cockblocking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dry Humping, F/F, F/M, Failed Sex, Foreskin Play, Girls Kissing, He really isn't into Sarah, Implied/Referenced Sex, Interrupted, John Plays Rugby, John has a limp dick, Lesbian Sex, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, Nudes, Only Read Alone NSFW GIFs, Peeping, Pining, Pizza, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Teenlock, Vader the Hamster!, Vaginal Sex, nsfw gifs, very nsfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 01:37:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6883765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ziggy_Played_Guitar/pseuds/Ziggy_Played_Guitar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The events that lead to John sending Sherlock a nude. </p><p>   <i>She raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow back at him. Not in the least bit fazed by his open-mouthed eating, “Nudes.” Indie grins several moments after. Picking up her phone lying next to her and tapping at it, eyes flickering down and no longer holding him.</i></p><p> </p><p>   <i>“Sorry? What?”</i></p><p> </p><p>   <i>“Nudes. You should send him a couple. See if he replies. If he does, then he’s obviously interested in you and you can finally end it with that annoying, self-centred, wannabe popular girlfriend of yours.”</i></p><p> <br/><b>I do not own any of the GIFs or Pics used. Credit goes to those they belong to!</b> </p><p>
  <b>Graphic GIFs & Pictures Used</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	John's Picture

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little one-shot thing but I will be continuing this with a multi-chapter fic! ^_^ (with GIFS and Pics included). 
> 
> The nudes Sherlock and John send each other are the same ones in the first chapter of Dirty Picture, I couldn't find the pictures to re-add them.
> 
>  _Please_ do not follow Indie's advice!

 

 

** John’s Picture **

 

John watches the faint rise and fall of Sarah’s head as she sucks his cock. Her eyes are closed, her hands massaging and cupping his balls and her dainty throat taking all his cock down in one, spit dripping from her rosy lips when she pulls away. Running the tip of her tongue on his head, he spots the slight disappointment in her re-opened eyes when he doesn't jerk or gasp at the sensation. Months back it would have been enough for him to lose control, flip them over and ram himself down her throat before coming all over her freshly done make-up. 

 

 

Just the way all his sexual partners like it.

 

 

Now though, it disinterests him. It’s the wrong shade of blue staring back at him, the wrong cupid bow lips, the wrong sharp cheekbones. But, in some strange way, Sarah does look like him with her dark curls and light blue eyes. John can only assume that the reason he decided to agree to their first date was because of her resemblance to Sherlock Holmes. 

 

 

The feel of flesh against his cock pulls him out of his thoughts. Sarah’s giving him a seductive look through her thick lashes as she rubs his cock between her breasts. It’s the worst thing she could have done, considering he’s trying to imagine her flat chested. Closing his eyes and imagining he’s rubbing his cock in between his best mate’s arse cheeks is the only thing he can do to keep his erection and not have Sarah’s probing questions over his limp dick (which has happened so many times he’s lost count).

 

 

Thankfully, she decides that’s she’s got bored. Letting go of his cock, it falls semi-hard against his hip as she climbs up to straddle him. The tip of his cock against her warm opening seems to make it spring back to life as she slips her wet heat over his length. A stuttered moans escapes through the blonde’s throat as she slowly starts to ride him, both of her hands on either side of his neck as she leans forward. Moving her hips swiftly, she teases the top of his head. Fucking his cock shallowly.

 

 

John finds his arms are being awkward. Planting one behind his head, whilst the other one stays useless mid-air. He debates with himself if he should rest it against Sarah’s soft curves and lose the image he has of Sherlock riding him (and lose his erection) or grip the bedsheets instead and let her do her thing so he can get home.

 

 

He goes for the sheet.

 

 

He also decides to close his eyes, cursing himself for having not called it quits with the brunette by now. Around four months is far too long to keep this façade going, and far too long to keep up hope that it might overrule his feelings for Sherlock. Sarah deserves someone who can actually love her, hell someone who can get her off without thinking of their best friend! But without someone he fears that his feelings – his wanting – for his friend will come to light and the dread of rejection overrules anything else. The last thing the blonde needs is for his genius to deduce him and lose him.

 

 

The girl on top of him throws her head into his neck, covering John’s face with hair. Feeling Sarah’s walls tighten around him followed by her moans howling down his ear. He’s too busy spitting out the hair in his mouth, brushing it out of his eyes and twitching his nose to get it out of his nostrils that he’s too slow to fake his orgasm as the younger girl sits up and eyes him with wary eyes.

 

 

“Who is she?” She asks, voice husky as she climbs off him as sits on her knees next to him. John, for a second, sees a hidden vulnerability to her amongst the boldness before it’s masked by the cock of her head and a glint in her eye.  

 

“Who?” John asks, taking the condom off his softening, unsatisfied cock.

 

 

“You know who. You haven’t fucked me properly for a good month and a half now, John. Nevermind coming! You haven’t filled a condom up in…forever! What’s the matter? Is it me? Who is it that you’re cheating on me with?” Putting on his jeans and t-shirt, John looks up through the fringe of his blonde hair at the young woman. The gentleman in him tells him to reassure her, take her to bed and stay with her till she’s asleep. Whilst the other side of him – which is mourning the fact that Sherlock isn't the naked person in front of him looking at him with large puppy-dog eyes – is shouting at him to just leave, not wanting to get the wrath of his mum if he stays out any longer and to finish himself at home in bliss silence and with a clear image of Sherlock in his head.

 

 

He goes for the latter.

 

 

“There’s no one else, Sarah.” John huffs, throwing his jumper on over his head and grabbing his phone off the bedside table, “I've just been…distracted recently. You know, with mum and dad and the divorce.” He soothes her, delighted to see that his half-lie works as she slumps back into her mountain of cushions. It’s half-true. His parents are in the middle of a messy divorce and his father’s moving back up to Scotland; it _has_ stopped the blonde from coming over and seeing not just her but the majority of his friends.

 

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow. You have that game, don’t you? I won’t be able to go.” She mutters, curling into her bed sheets and closing her eyes, “Close the door and turn off the lights when you leave, baby.” John leaves without another word, leaning his head against the door and releasing a heavy breath. His hands shake as he puts his shoes on at the door, bids goodnight to Mrs Sawyer and practically runs out of the house with his coat fisted in his hand as he starts the quick ten minute walk back home.

 

 

He lets the rain soak through his thin jumper and jeans, his head down as he swiftly goes home. Praying that his mum’s asleep when he goes in, he finds his mind wondering – like it always does – to Sherlock. He splashes into a deep puddle, the lack of lighting in the evening sky making it hard for the blonde to see where he’s stepping.

 

 

His friend has always been on the wild side; skipping classes, smoking, horrific experiments and a complete and utter mystery to the A-Level student. From day one John was hooked, wanting to learn more about the baffling and perplexing boy sitting at the back of the class, alone and with deadly cheekbones. But Sherlock had made it utterly clear to him that he wanted nothing to do with him, so the blonde – with his mum having drilled manners into his head at an early age – backed off.

 

 

Waiting for Sherlock to make the first move.

 

 

And when he did, John did his very bloody best to make it clear to him that he was interested in him. Not just as a friend but as more; lover, boyfriend, partner. Yet again, Sherlock made it clear to him that his ‘work’ and ‘experiments’ come first. So friends they were. John fucked anyone he could, dated anyone he could; male and female, sometimes at the same time. In hopes that he could keep his desire for his friend hidden, and it worked.

 

 

Until recently.

 

 

Being with one person for so long seems to have brought along cracks to his façade, god knows why. His close friends; Greg and Mike have seemed to notice that John likes Sherlock more than just as a friend and his sister and her numerous sexual partners who come fluttering in and out the house have done too. Assuming his and Sherlock’s relationship is more than friends is something everyone does, no matter how many times John corrects them. But this is different. These aren’t just assumptions. These are people he knows and loves seeing the barrier he put up all them months ago, seeing that the assumptions are utterly correct.

 

 

And if they can see it, then so can the ever-so-observant Sherlock Holmes.

 

 

And it’s terrifying.

 

 

Losing his best friend, his little adrenaline pal, his detective, his science sidekick, his murder buddy is petrifying.

 

 

John shakes it away, the knot in his abdomen far too uncomfortable for the blonde to continue the thought as he unlocks the front door and steps inside the small three-bedroom terrace house. The last of his dad’s boxes are in the tiny hall as he hangs up his dry coat and kicks off his spoiled trainers. Shaking his head like a wet dog, he wrings out his soggy hair with his left hand and takes off his jumper; wiping up the water on the wooden floor.

 

 

It’s a simple, traditional terrace house, like all the houses on the estate. The long hall has three doors and stairs leading upwards. The far door leads to a utility room and to the garden whilst the door on his right leads to the kitchen/dining room and the final door on his left leads to the living room, where John can hear the telly playing. Heading into kitchen, John prays that Harry hasn’t eaten all the cold pizza left from yesterdays take-away.

 

 

Fist-bumping the air when he finds two slices staring back at him, basking in the light of the fridge, he grabs them and gobbles them down. Only hesitating slightly when his eyes land on the microwave but decides that using it might alert his mum to his return, plus he can’t wait. Stumbling out of the kitchen, he makes his way into the living room, balancing his pizza in his hand as he opens the living room door with his pinkie.  

 

 

The TV is the only source of light, having turned off the hallway light before coming in. But despite the lack of lighting, John can make out two figures over the back of the sofa. They’re far too close to be considered friendly and when John sees the shadow of the one on top leaning forward to kiss the one underneath, John realises he’s standing – staring – at his sister making out with another girl.

 

 

He doesn't know how long he stands there for, but when a stuttered moan escapes through his sisters lips and what John can only see as a hand moving downwards; he slams the door shut with his eyes screwed closed. Breathing heavily against the door, mouth full of pizza and the other pizza crushed between his right fist, he curses himself for not bloody knocking! It’s the sixth time this week he’s walked in on his sister and one of her many conquests and the third time in the past two days he’s heard his sister get off!

 

 

Wishing that he had the strength to walk into the kitchen and grab the bleach to wash his ears out, instead he begins to head upstairs when a second moan comes through the door, this one accompanied with a low ‘ _yes, stick your fucking tongue down there_ ’. Practically running up the stairs, he licks his pizza covered hand before eating the last slice as he flops down onto the bed. Ignoring the pile of homework staring back at him, he reaches for his pillow.

 

 

Flinging it over his head in an attempt to stop the sexual noises from floating up the stairs and through the thin walls, he falls into a very erotic sleep.

 

 

Sherlock’s arse the main focus.    

 

\---

 

His sister’s bedroom room slamming shut it what brings him out of his rather pleasant dream as he rolls over and thrusts his aching hard-on into the bedsheets of his single bed. Biting his pillow to stop the onslaught of grunts, he feels the soft swell of his climax already building at the base of his stomach and the clench of his balls even after one thrust.

 

 

Begging his mind to give back the obviously pleasant dream, he lifts his trembling hips into the cool morning air ready to dive his cock back into the warm, slept-in mattress. Goosebumps begin to form on his lower legs from the lack of covering but the burning heat building beneath his skin is enough to overrule the freezing temperature. His thighs tremble from the weight of his body as his toned stomach flinches and flexes as he shifts some of the weight onto his front, pleased that he’s finally getting off and adding in a quick workout for his abs.

 

 

Feeling his cock twitch and throb in anticipation for what’s to come, he lowers his hips back down drawing out a long, slow, sensual thrust across his virgin bed sheets. Throwing his head into his cushion, mouth agape and eyes closed in utter bliss, no sounds manage to escape up his throat, blocked somehow on their way through. Growling at the barrier between his cock and the bed sheets, he reaches down with his dominant left hand to roughly take his leaking length out of his pyjama bottoms.

 

 

Only briefly wondering when the hell he stripped out of his clothes and into his bottoms last night.

 

 

Shaking his legs awkwardly like a mermaid out of water, he gets his bottoms off and kicks them in a bunch next to his forgotten batman bed cover at the end of the bed. Rocking his hips in tiny circles, one of his hands finds themselves buried in his desperately-in-need-of-a-cut hair and tugs at it sharply, enjoying the edge of pain as the vein in his cock pulses rapidly. His other hand travels over his arse, teasing the puckered skin fluttering on time with every quiver of his dick.

 

 

His lack of patience is evident as he presses his dry index finger shallowly in his hole, nipping at his lower lip and spreading his legs wider when he stops at the first knuckle, ignoring the dry feel and the difficulty of trying to get his finger in. Settling onto his left elbow, hand still in his hair, his back arches as he twists ever-so-slightly so he can get his finger in deep and watch his hand disappear over the mould of his arse. Ignoring the mellow protest of his back and arm muscles from the strained position.   

 

 

Feeling a drop of pre-cum slid down his length, he throws his head back as his whole body vibrates from the sensation and his toes curl. The vivid image of Sherlock licking him out, teasing the rim of his arsehole and shoving his long slender tongue - that John pervertedly stares at whenever it makes an appearance - into him. Sherlock’s elegant hands wrapping themselves around John’s muscular thighs and nose buried deep between his arse cheeks, grunting and desperate to eat more.

 

 

The blonde mutters a harsh ‘Sherlock’ into the crook of his elbow, tightening his grip in his hair and grinding roughly against the covers in multiple short thrusts. His finger sinks in slowly, rubbing faintly on his prostate. John thanks himself for reading so many medical books as he fingers the bundle of nerves again, aware that he might be getting a bit too loud.

 

 

His balls tighten painfully as the burning in his abdomen begins to intensify and his cock twitches between the mattress and his stomach. Smiling to himself as the beginning of an oh-so-familiar orgasm, Sherlock’s cocky grin flashes in mind just before he tucks himself back into John’s arse. His finger plunging deeper into himself, he throws his head back and gasps in the air just as one bit of tiny friction pushes him over the edg-

 

 

“Johnny! Get up, you lazy fucker!” His sister shouts from the other side of the door. Pausing in his actions and the desire and lust burning out within a blink of an eye, he curses his sister with every vile word he can think of as he takes his finger out of his arse and sits up onto his knees. Choosing to ignore the blood he can taste in his mouth and the very large, very noticeable wet patch on his sheet, he gets dressed with vengeance. Nearly tearing his boxers, breaking his window with his belt and suffocating himself with his jumper.

 

 

By the time he’s dressed and ready, his earlier hard-on is now as soft as a marshmallow and tucked comfortably in his aging boxers. He throws open the door and watches with great satisfaction as it slams into the wall behind. Hearing the shower in the bathroom, he glares at the closed door and then down towards his suddenly bursting bladder before storming downstairs in a fit of rage. Instantly stopping when he enters the kitchen to see his sister’s friends-with-benefits -- Indie -- leaning against the island in the middle of the kitchen in nothing but one of John’s t-shirts and a pair of black lace knickers, munching happily on a marshmallow; which does nothing to dissolve John’s thoughts on his unsatisfied, limp dick.

 

 

“Hey, John!” She waves at him, her normal afro hair straightened into a long bob and her make-up free face showing the dark freckles against her ebony skin. Dark eyes land on his as he starts moving again, deciding not to question her on why she has his t-shirt on. After all, it’s early and John knows that they both can get rather snappy in the mornings. Saluting her, he walks over to the fridge and eyes the emptiness with even more vengeance before slamming it shut and glaring at it when it bounces back at him.

 

 

“You know, you should take up meditation.” Indie comments, elbows rested on the island as she slowly chews the last of her marshmallow, long black-painted nails tapping at her cheeks as she eyes him mischievously.

 

 

“No.” John says shortly, heading over to the bread-bin and wishing up to the ceiling a small ‘thank-you’ as he grabs the last crusts of a loaf of bread. Completely ignoring the week gone best before date and the mould starting on the edge, he puts it in the toaster with a pleased grin before turning back to Indie, “My aim in life is to be Hulk, I can’t be Hulk if I’m relaxed.”

 

 

“Thought you wanted to be a Doctor?”

 

 

Shrugging he takes out the chocolate spread, “Hulk is a much more realistic dream. I think I can achieve it more than becoming a Doctor.”

 

 

Rolling her incredibly dark eyes at him, the mischievous twist to her lips turns into a full blown shit-eating grin as her hands fall to the island top and her head cocks to the side like an eager puppy. If it weren't for the fact its broad daylight and the humorous glint in her eyes is obvious, he would have found the way she looks terrifyingly creepy with the whole tipping the head, like she’s just walked out of Paranormal Activity.

 

 

Deciding to keep his eyes on her, glaring back at her with even more vengeance than his door and fridge have received, he somehow manages to spread a thick layer of chocolate spread on his out-of-date pieces of toast with his eyes firmly set on her and his back to what he’s doing.

 

 

“How’s the pining going?”

 

 

Coughing on his bite of toast, his eyes water as he tries to clear his throat and crumbs scatter across the kitchen along with his spit, “What the fuck you on about?” He manages to choke out after a good two minutes of choking and with no movement of her coming to help him out.

 

 

“Don’t play dumb, John. Your heart eyes every time your little toy boy’s around is fairly obvious that you’re – and I’m quoting Twilight here so feel free to gag – unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him. _Or_ unconditionally and irrevocably in lust with him, whatever one makes you more comfortable.”

 

 

Opening his mouth and closing it again, a squeak slips through his chocolate covered lips which only makes her smirk grow into a full blown Cheshire cat grin. Shifting his weight onto his left hip before deciding to sit onto the counter so his sudden weak knees don’t give up.

 

 

“You haven’t answered my question. How’s the pining going?”

 

 

“I’m not answering your bloody question, Indie. I think the answer is fairly obvious. He’s not with me. In my arms. Or kissing me. Or holding my hand. Or even near me at the moment. So how do you think the pining’s going, huh?” He answers hot-headedly, dramatically finishing his piece of toast with his mouth open just because it annoys her.

 

 

She raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow back at him. Not in the least bit fazed by his open-mouthed eating, “Nudes.” Indie grins several moments after. Picking up her phone lying next to her and tapping at it, eyes flickering down and no longer holding him.

 

 

“Sorry? What?”

 

 

“Nudes. You should send him a couple. See if he replies. If he does, then he’s obviously interested in you and you can finally end it with that annoying, self-centred, wannabe popular girlfriend of yours.”

 

 

“You can talk.” He mutters to himself, looking down at his twisting hands.

 

 

“Sweetcheeks, I’m the bitchiest, most narcissistic and intolerable woman you’ll ever meet. I know I am. So don’t go giving me that kind of attitude. We both know your girlfriend is unpleasant but with the whole innocent, _oh-I’d-never-hurt-anyone_ way. Like she’s just walked out of some Disney princess movie.”

 

 

He snorts in reply, unable to stop it. Silently agreeing with the fact.

 

 

“ _So_ , listen to your sister’s fuck-buddy and take my shit advice. Send him a nude. Just one. Make it good. Irresistible even. Show off your thighs or your six-pack. Please, for the love of god, do not just send a dick-pic. That’s a no no. No one wants to see a random picture of someone’s meat dagger. Like _seriously_ they really aren’t pretty to look at. Leave some room for the imagination.” Indie continues, flicking through her phone quickly before waving him over.

 

 

He follows her instructions without arguing, leaning across the table and taking the phone out of her grip, “These are some of my own nudes. Don’t worry, baby boy, no sweater stretchers or soggy box on full display. Like I said, _imag-in-ation_.”

 

 

Looking down at the phone timidly and ignoring the strangled chuckle that escapes his lips at her bizarre names for her lady parts, the pictures are strangely innocent. Even if skin, legs and cleavage are on display. But it does leave some room for the mind to wonder or for the _imagination_ as she likes to say. He notices that they’re fairly old as well, with no koi fish tattoo on her upper right thigh.

 

 

 

He swipes through them quickly. Ready to throw the phone back to her when he hears his mum or Harry walking down the stairs. When he doesn't hear anything, he looks back at them. Letting his mind wonder to how he might pose in his own nudes, _not_ that he’s going to do it. He thinks maybe one of his back, possible one standing up. Hell, he hears people going on about his arse and back muscles all the time, so maybe doggie?

 

 

 _Why the hell am I thinking about this?!_ He screams at himself, skidding the phone over the marble surface and back to its owner. Her eyebrow is back being raised at him patronisingly. John’s jealous. He wants to know how to do that. How to make someone feel like a toddler even though they’ve just saw them half-naked, and (in the past) heard them get off.

 

 

“And what if he doesn't reply? Or does something that shows he isn't interested?”

 

 

_Why the am I even contemplating this?_

 

“Just send a quick ‘ _sorry_ _was meant to be for my incredibly irritating girlfriend who’s begging to be killed. Or hit in the face…with a brick.’_ Then it will be forgotten about. But _not_ if you send a dick pic. Those things are gross and unforgettable and did I mention gross? _”_

 

“Right... Ok then.” John lamely replies, staring at the table and letting his mind run wild with possible ways. He somewhat sees this _working_ and getting him an answer to the question he longs to ask, “What about my face? He could spread it around.”

 

 

“Well don’t put your face in the picture, nitwit. Anyways, from what I’ve seen and heard from the little Cherub, he’ll be delighted with a little naked picture of you. God knows he undresses you with his eyes enough.”

 

 

“He does not!”

 

 

“Does so!”

 

 

“What are you twats shouting about this goddamn early in the morning about?” Harry grumbles as she stumbles in the kitchen, the smallest of towels wrapped around her still dripping body. John immaturely looks pointedly at the wall next to Indie, his back fixed to his sister because he _does not_ want to see the birthmark at the very top of her thigh. And ignores the fact that he has an identical one but on his other thigh.

 

 

“His little firecracker and how he should seduce him.” Indie answers, not very subtly checking out his sister and he screams at her with his body to _stop_. Practically waving his hands in the air in an attempt to break the eye fucking.

 

 

Harry hums in response. Coming into John’s line of sight and leaning suggestively over Indie, towel hanging far too dangerously over his older sister’s chest for him to be truly comfortable. He stares at the wall opposite and hopes they break up their tongue wrestle soon but with the time from the microwave blinking erratically at him and his morning breathe stuck to his tongue, he rushes out of the kitchen and into the bathroom.

 

 

He tides himself up quickly, stuffs his incomplete homework into his bag, makes sure his rugby stuff is packed and ready and grabs his phone before heading out. He ignores Indie’s calls of ‘go get him, tiger’ as he slams the door shut.

 

\---

 

John looks over his recent nude with his head tilted and his eyes scanning over everything wrong with his body. He sees love handles, a wonky nipple and too big pecs. But the light from the bathroom window _does_ highlight his muscles nicely and show-off his tan. He wonders whether to ask Indie for advice on it but remembers he has only ten minutes to get to rugby and he’s home alone.

 

 

Cursing at the clock, he leaves his phone charged at home before running out of the house. His mind going over different poses he could do to seem more appealing. He trips over the curb on his run to the school field, mind too focused on what _Sherlock_ might reveal back. Glaring down at his bleeding knee, he blames it for his fall and mentally demands it too _at least_ work probably in the match.

 

 

It seems to listen to him…

 

\---

 

Sinking into the warm water and bubbles beneath is pure _bloody_ heaven.

 

 

His muscles relax immediately and his skin stings against the intense heat. The bubbles fluff around his aching body and spill over the edge of the tub as he sinks all the way in. Sighing in utter bliss, he closes his eyes against the onslaught of silence. Thanking the hospital for keeping his mum in overtime and whatever girl for keeping Harry away, he takes full advantage of having the house to himself by stealing Harry’s designer bath bombs and soap that he’s had his eye on since forever and by keeping the bathroom door open; allowing his hamster – Vader (yes, after Darth Vader) – to wonder in and out of the room in his ball.

 

 

Although he is a bit worried that his little ball of black Syrian fluff might fall down the stairs.

 

 

But that wouldn’t be the first time he’s done it.

 

 

And John’s ready to dash out and catch him.

 

 

Hearing Vader crash into the side of the bath and then into the toilet, he lets himself sink further in the bath when he knows his little boy won’t be getting thrown anywhere anytime soon. His phone vibrates on the floor next to the bed, but he ignores it, knowing it’s either going to be Sarah or one of the rugby lads. Instead, his mind goes back to Indie’s suggesting of nudes and the one he took earlier.

 

 

Looking down at himself now, bubbles covering the necessary parts _just_ in case Harry or Mum came home early, body glistening in the slowly brightening overhead light, feet perching himself further up in the water and – most importantly – leaving some room for the _imag-in-ation_. He decides that maybe now, whilst he’s on a high and his much needed release is shimmering back, it might be an excellent time to follow Indie’s stupid, ridiculous, idiotic yet oddly brilliant advice.

 

 

Making sure to perch his hips up a little higher, to include his hardening nipples and darkening hair on his legs; he takes a snap then crops to take out his face and the arm holding the phone. It leaves – and if John is being truthful – a damn good picture.

 

 

Grinning, pleased, down at it he begins to send it to Sherlock with shaking fingers with the caption; **We won the match.** After a quick argument and talk with Vader he adds a timid **join me? -JW** at the end. Deciding he’s has enough of the bath, and his nerves not allowing him to stay still, he finishes cleaning himself up before stepping out, narrowly avoiding stepping on his hamster’s ball.

 

 

Scooping up his belongings, he pads out of the bathroom with a small towel around his waist and Vader eagerly following him. Throwing his belongings on the bed, _not_ thinking about the fact his phone hasn’t alerted him to a reply yet, he puts Vader away quickly in his cage in the living room before padding back upstairs and drying himself off.

 

 

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, his shaking fingers start to type out the message; **Oh shit! Sherlock I am so sorry! That was meant for Sarah! Do not look at that last text! –JW**. His finger hovers over the send button. Brain battling with his heart to just wait another five minutes to see if Sherlock replies first; he might be asleep or busy for all John knows and hasn't seen it yet. But John knows Sherlock. He knows he doesn't sleep and he knows that Sherlock always replies, especially if its John’s specialised ringtone.

 

 

So he tells himself _two more minutes_ just to hold onto the tad bit of hope he has that Sherlock likes him back, wants him _desperately_ like John does him. That he wants John to take him roughly on any available surface and mark his pale, lithe body everywhere, to show everyone that Sherlock is _his_. To present to Sherlock what the last five months have been like; pining and lusting after him, forbidden to touch and too afraid to say.

 

 

Making all his wank fantasies true.

 

 

God how he _longs_.

 

 

His stomach twists uncomfortable when he sees the two minutes he gave himself are up and Sherlock has yet to reply, probably trying to come up with a polite way to let him down. Holding back the heavy tears filling his eyes, he presses send.

 

 

Only to regret it instantly when a picture of _Sherlock’s_ body pops up on his screen.

 

 

 _He sent a fucking nude back! He send a fucking, sodding nude back!_ John screams to himself, grabbing his pillow and doing said that; screaming into it. His cock springs to life at the sight. The black boxers tight on that bloody slender form, rosy nipples contrasting prettily against his deadly pale skin, body showing not a single ounce of body hair, thin thigh spread out lazily yet invitingly and a semi-hard cock clearly _very_ visible.

 

 

His cock is very, very, _very_ interested.

 

 

Cursing himself for sending the blood message, he panics. Looking around his dark bedroom, he flicks on the bedside lamp and scutters onto his hands and knees on the bed. Bending his spine in what he thinks is a seductive way, spreading his thighs wider in what he hopes is an inviting way and tensing his back muscles in what he wishes is another seductive way. He lifts his phone up with his left hand, tenses his bicep muscles in his right arm just in case they get in the shot and places his head down on the quilt, which he suddenly notices his Mum must have changed.

 

 

Clicking the shot, he nods his head approvingly at the sight and shadows dramatically showing him off. Before clicking send, praying that somehow Sherlock never got his recent text and won’t suddenly ignore him or think he’s playing him or anything else stupid.    

 

 

His fingers are crossed tightly together as he clumsily settles himself down on the edge of the mattress, feet on the floor, towel now a lump on the floor, leaving his cock bobbing thick and hard in the air. With Sherlock’s image lighting up the screen of his phone, his body on display, John finds his balls tensing near his body and his cock oozing pre-cum without the slightest touch needing to be given.

 

 

 _Christ_ does it feel nice.

 

 

 _Christ_ does it make John crave Sherlock more.

 

 

 _Christ_ does John want to plant it in Sherlock’s teasing mouth.

 

 

Gripping his length in his fist, he starts pumping, throwing his head back blissfully and grunting up at the ceiling. Giving his stroke a playful twist at the end, dancing teasingly over the head before embracing the base tightly. Its torture on his cock, but utterly addictive.

 

 

His phone alerts him to a reply.

 

 

Keeping his left hand teasing his prick, he eagerly opens the new message from Sherlock, and nearly comes straight away from the sight. Sherlock’s twisted almost painfully in the picture, boxes pulled down teasingly, showing his snowy arse-cheeks, the tops of his hairless thighs, his veiny arms, the delicate curve of his long back and the tensing agile muscle of his friend’s stomach.

 

 

John is slightly disappointed that the picture is black and white but it’s swiftly out of his mind as quickly as it entered. Running his left hand lazily around the base of his cock, he grazes his cock with his palm. Annoying himself and his overwhelming need to come.

 

 

Using his index finger, he rolls the rest of his foreskin off the head, twitching and shivering from the sensitivity and plays with it. Rolling the delicate skin between his fingers and tugging it away from his cock before letting it slap back onto his length. He watches himself doing it with rapture before losing all patience. Hastily drawing his fist stiffer around his cock, his hand speeds up, almost burningly. He’s half aware that his bed’s squeaking from the speed of his fist and his legs are jerking and bouncing when his thumb strokes over the vein of his prick.

 

 

With nimble fingers he sends Sherlock the nude he took earlier today and prays for the best when he throws his phone across the room, putting his full attention on his aching, quiver cock. His eyes slam shut as he re-takes himself in his palm, his neck automatically falls back and his mouth opens to gasp at the warm air. Sherlock’s name on his lips as he uses the nail of his index finger over his ball-sack, pinching it between his index and thumb, relishing the edge of pain.

 

 

It’s far too quick when he comes, but _damn_ is it strong. It leaves him panting and swearing and shouting Sherlock’s name at his ceiling, with come reaching his neck and jaw and his chest heaving heavily. John’s pretty sure that even Vader downstairs has stopped running on his squeaky wheel in alarm. He begins to chuckle to himself until he’s clutching his sides, facing the ceiling on his back and wipe tears from his eyes.

 

 

The happiness and utter joy running through him is unbelievable as he crawls into bed, switching off the light and using a nearby used tissue to clean the drying semen off him. He snuggles into his covers with his grin hurting his cheeks, his body feeling light and his mind filled with rainbows, ponies, unicorns and Sherlock’s nudes.

 

 

The brief thought of thanking Indie comes to mind before he’s dozing off.

 

\---

 

Twenty-Four hours later after his cock has been rammed down Sherlock’s throat, after he’s managed to shout and persuade Sarah not to go spreading what she’s seen around and after deviously making Sherlock Holmes a power bottom.

 

 

He finally has Sherlock Holmes in his arms, nodding to sleep despite Mycroft _sodding_ Holmes walking in on them not ten minutes ago. It’s utter bliss. Heaven handed to him. His cock stirs to life again but with a quite ‘stop’ whispered down towards it, it seems to settle back down. Well, kind of. His phone buzzes on the bedside table next to him. Picking it up before it vibrates off the table, his eyes squint against the bright light before the words begin to form in front of him.

 

 

**I told you it would work, moody. –Indie**

 

 

John grins at the message before typing back:

 

 

_Thank you. –JW._

 

**Thank me by giving the little Cherub another mind-blowing climax and getting rid of that horrid gf so Harry and I don’t have to listen to her squeaky voice anymore. –Indie**

 

He’s about to put the phone back down but it buzzes again;

 

 

**Also, thank me by not letting Curls go. WE don’t want to trip over your bottom lip anymore. –Indie & Harry**

 

Chuckling into Sherlock curls, John watches as Sherlock grunts into his chest before settling back down, pressing sleepy lips to the blonde's uncovered skin. Johns settles into the mattress as well, closing his eyes and letting his hands wonder over Sherlock’s lithe form and through his sweaty yet still ridiculously silky curls.

 

 

 _Just five more minutes_ he tells himself, remembering Mycroft saying something about dinner. His fingers draw odd shapes and patterns on his lover’s bare back and his fingers play with a stray curl as he sinks into the bliss silence, the echo of cutlery moving downstairs and Sherlock light snoring is all he can hear. The breeze from the bedroom window is creating goosebumps on his skin but it’s easily ignored, after all he has Sherlock in his arms.

 

 

 _Just five more minutes._  

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr: [here](http://ziggyplayed-guitar.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I will be writing a plan for the multi-chapter (might be called The Perfect Picture) as soon as possible. Chapters will hopefully be a bit shorter so it won't be too slow for updates and I have some of the GIFs ready and waiting for me to use. Vader will be playing a part in the up-coming fic. He's based off my own hamster -- Hannibal -- but I have plans to use Hannibal in a GangsterLock fic I have planned, thus Vader being different to Hannibal! XD (Hannibal's pure white). 
> 
> I also have plans for Indie in the future but please tell me your thoughts on her! 
> 
> Plus, in the future I might add a small one-shot of John's thoughts throughout the changing-room blowjob and the fight with Sarah if people are interested? >.


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